


Gifts

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [20]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fluff, Knifeplay, M/M, Sex Toys, adoration, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You didn’t need to do anything,” Hannibal murmurs. He nuzzles against Will’s hairless chest, kisses drifting sleepy slow and affectionate over his smooth skin, grazing a nipple before Hannibal settles again, tangled in sheets and the sweet confines of Will’s skinny limbs that wrap around him.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I wanted to. We haven’t ever done anything for your birthday.”</i>
</p>
<p>The puppies enjoy a cuddly day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts

It comes with a nuzzle.

It comes with a kiss and a gentle hum, but wakefulness comes to Hannibal by proxy of his boy, little hands on either side of him pressing into the bed, soft nose drawing smooth paint-brush-strokes up and down the smooth muscle of his neck.

Will is, in truth, an entirely affectionate creature. Despite his appearances of being aloof, uncaring, at being above everything and everyone else, with Hannibal he is this. This soft, sweet, genuinely loving boy. And, in truth, Hannibal could not be happier for it.

He adores him.

With a quiet groan, he sighs, and Will ceases his nuzzling to settle heavy over Hannibal’s side instead. He is already dressed, which is odd for them, but Hannibal can feel the fabric of his light pants against his skin before bare toes press against his calves, slightly colder than the rest of the boy, but dry - so he had gone outside, but not to the beach.

Another groan and Will wriggles against him, enough for Hannibal to turn to his back and for Will to happily press to his chest. But he does not move to wake Hannibal further, no more nuzzling, no teasing kisses or seeking hands - he just waits, heart beating against Hannibal’s own, until the older man relents, allows one eye to open, and sees his little wolf against him, smile bright and eyes brighter still.

Will’s words taste like honey when he breathes them, gentle and little and so entirely genuine Hannibal almost aches from it.

“Good morning,” Will smiles. “I love you.”

Hannibal’s lips curve higher, until they part on a yawn, covered by the back of his hand. Humming, he relaxes again and rests his fingers twining into Will’s hair, stroking gently. “I love you,” he answers, voice thick with sleep, eyes hooded but not closed.

He wonders what mad god might have created such a creature as this, that in one whirlwind boy exists raw sexuality, monstrous violence, and unfathomable sweetness.

He wonders in what god’s face they spit, by finding such boundless adoration amidst a river of blood in their wake.

Big arms slip down around Will’s shoulders, to weigh down his wriggling, pleased when all the embrace does is bring the boy even nearer against him. Finally Hannibal’s eyes close when Will’s kisses scatter over his chin, his lips, his cheeks, and he sighs a laugh.

“What have you done wrong that you make such amends for it?”

Will laughs, little and pleased, and rests his head against Hannibal’s chest as the older man brings one hand up to stroke over his hair again. He considers the answers he could give, the things Hannibal would count towards a playful punishment were he so inclined - and he always is. But he says none of them, not today. At least not now. He just rests against Hannibal and brings his hands up to curl against his sides.

He contents himself listening to the beat of Hannibal’s heart, nuzzling against the hair on his chest before taking a deep breath, a wonderful lungful of Hannibal’s sleepy morning smell, and pushing up to kiss Hannibal deeply.

“I bought you a birthday gift,” he admits, grinning when Hannibal just blinks at him. “Several birthday gifts.”

“Will -”

“I suppose some I made.”

“I hope not in the kitchen.”

Will only shrugs, biting his lip as if it might dim his grin, when it only seems to make it brighter. Hannibal twists his fingers softly in Will’s hair again, closing his eyes when the boy wriggles up to touch kisses against his throat again, mouth soft and tongue teasing hot now and again. Eyes closed again, entirely content to feel his little wolf squirming pleased against him, Hannibal still manages to raise a brow.

He supposes it is his birthday, or near enough to it. The days are long and the nights warm, but for now and then when a chill breeze off the sea promises approaching winter, still months away. The date, he could dredge up from memory if it felt important to do so, but it hardly matters when there are more curious things afoot than that.

“Have you been going through my papers again, awful boy?”

"For years," he purrs, "and you only finally notice?"

In truth he had found himself almost immediately stumped trying to find Hannibal's birthday by such sneaky methods. The man had more identities and passports than Will could keep track of, and he had them hidden everywhere. Will had spent the first year finding them all. The second sorting. All the while being spoiled on his own birthdays with both affection and presents - if one or both of those took the form of spanking or rough, claiming sex Will would be the last to complain of it.

And then he had found it, one passport too worn and too used to be a newly sewn plastic falsity. For one thing, it was leatherbound. For another, the photo within was Hannibal around Will’s age, or even younger.

So he had waited until the next year, this year, to finally celebrate.

Will curls his fingers over Hannibal’s shoulders and rests against the crook of his neck with a contented sigh. There is breakfast downstairs, kept warm in the oven, fresh coffee in the machine. He had been up for hours, so quiet he hadn't woken the man who wakes at every sigh and every sound when he isn't sure if Will against him.

“You did not need to trouble yourself with this,” Hannibal murmurs, and keeping Will in his arms, he rolls the boy to his back and lays heavy atop him instead.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t need to do anything,” Hannibal murmurs. He nuzzles against Will’s hairless chest, kisses drifting sleepy slow and affectionate over his smooth skin, grazing a nipple before Hannibal settles again, tangled in sheets and the sweet confines of Will’s skinny limbs that wrap around him.

“I wanted to. We haven’t ever done anything for your birthday.”

The older man hums, and runs a hand along Will’s ribs. “I would rather you have thought of me as having sprung fully-formed into existence, as I am.”

Will laughs, youthful, and brings a hand to stroke his hair from his face as he spreads himself languid under Hannibal's weight.

"I do. On this day, an undisclosed number of years ago."

Hannibal hums at the delicate avoidance. His age rarely bothers him, it is a number determined only by a - flawed - man-made calculating system changed and rewritten throughout the millennia it has existed in all its forms. Yet he is now at an age where one is considered past their prime. He knows Will would snort at the thought as much as Hannibal laughs in the face of it.

"And what have you done, dreadful boy?"

Will shivers from the depth of affection in the words. He draws his nails soft over Hannibal’s back, up to his shoulders and down again.

"Breakfast," he lists. “Presents. Sex." He grins. "And all the time in the world, with you."

“One year less now,” Hannibal reminds him, hissing when Will’s nails dig a little deeper for the remark. He hides a grin against Will’s chest, slipping lower to draw his mouth over Will’s stomach instead, soft still despite how strong he’s become. Hannibal follows the mark carved there and claims it as his own again with languid kisses that run its length, from rib to hip, and back again.

Will shivers convulsively at the touch, muffling a laugh behind the hand that he presses to his face. He drops it again to Hannibal’s hair when the older man rests his cheek against him.

“Could we not simply move to the latter, mentioned, and remain as we are?”

“The breakfast will burn,” Will reminds him. “You’ll complain about it every time you try to use the oven for a week.”

He isn’t wrong, so Hannibal doesn’t argue. He plants his hands to either side of Will’s skinny hips and pushes himself upward, laughing low when Will wraps his arms around his neck and comes with him, off the bed. “Must I carry you? This is a burdensome birthday.”

Will groans, put-upon, before releasing his grip and muffling a yawn against the back of his hand.

"No," he says, scrambling back out from under Hannibal and climbing off the bed, kicking his pants off in the process. "You're right, today is not a day to carry me. I should carry you instead."

It's playful, warm, and when Will wraps his arms around Hannibal’s middle he does manage, admirably, to get him to the door before the laughter and Hannibal's squirming makes further impossible. Will leans in the doorframe, hand to his face, laughing, cheeks pink with it and the exertion necessary to have carried Hannibal this far.

He meets the kisses given him, feels the laughter there in turn and wonders how they manage this, two monsters that they are, to be so undeniably, inescapably happy together.

"Breakfast," Will giggles, dropping his hand down, his head back. "Breakfast is downstairs. But it can be in bed if you're feeling stubborn."

“I could be convinced to eat in a civilized fashion,” Hannibal considers, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth in start before placing his arms against the doorframe, and leaning low over Will. He brushes his nose against the boy’s temple, buries it in his hair and breathes him in, long and slow and entirely content. “So long as you remain as bare as you are now.”

“That isn’t very civilized,” Will murmurs, grinning as he tilts his head aside beneath the gentle nosing against him.

“You are not, in the least,” agrees the older man before he wraps an arm beneath Will’s backside and hefts the boy against his hip to carry him downstairs. He draws in a breath, savoring the taste of eggs and coffee, fresh herbs and fruit, that carries on the air. “And who is joining us this morning?”

"David? Davido? Two weeks ago, you claimed his hair was like spun amber and we had to have him," Will replies, arms around Hannibal until he can seek with his feet and find the cool tile floor. He kisses Hannibal softly and takes his hand to lead him to the kitchen.

"I insisted on him being entirely pliant, so you had me suck him off while you fingered him until he cried, do you remember?"

Hannibal remembers. Beautiful supple little thing, and entirely innocent, apparently, on a vacation from a very conservative family in a very conservative town. Pity.

"You planned this in advance."

"Many months in advance," Will grins, "but the meat needed to be fresher than the last boy we enjoyed."

Will leads Hannibal to the counter and leaves him there, bending deliberately, slowly, to open the oven door, folding a towel over his hands before reaching in. Everything is plated already, beautifully arranged eggs atop paper-thin slices of meat, home-ground pesto, herbs, fresh-baked bread from the bakery nearby. Entirely simple yet entirely not. 

Will sets it before Hannibal, and then detours to the coffee machine to fill them a cup each. When he returns he gestures, gently, just once, and slips to straddle Hannibal's lap, taking up the plate to hold between them to share.

"Happy birthday."

Hannibal parts his lips to accept a portion of egg, scrambled but far from overcooked, wrapped in a sliver of meat. His lips curve around Will’s fingers, lingering just a moment more, a delicious temptation to devour the boy in his lap as readily as Hannibal savors the one laid sweet against his tongue. Eyes hooding, he watches Will eat with just as much pleasure, and brings his hands to rest against Will’s bare thighs, thumbs stroking through fluffy hair that seems almost blonde against his tanned legs.

“Perhaps there is method to your madness,” Hannibal allows, reaching to take a sip of coffee. “I thought it sentimentality that you insisted on giving them release. But there is less game to the meat this way.”

Will’s cheeks darken, chin lifting as he smiles and accepts the praise, before feeding Hannibal another portion, set atop a slice of bread. His own lips part as Hannibal accepts it, and widen a little more still when Hannibal’s fingers toy along the boy’s velvety cock, soft between his legs. There is no intent in the touch, but to touch, a purposeless tease simply because they can.

“I recall, always, the first time I told you how I made use of the boys who found their way to my bed,” Hannibal murmurs. “Surprise. Delight.” He leans near to touch a kiss to Will’s jaw as he chews, musing. “Did you ever fear me?”

“Once,” Will admits, chewing thoughtfully on another mouthful before swallowing and licking his lips. “When you were trying to break down the door. I was terrified that if I didn’t let you in you would make me go. Forget me.”

No fear, even then, of death or pain. Pain he had gotten, pain had held Will limp and in tears for days after. Death had not laid a hand on him since the wound that had Hannibal sewing his boy back together, claiming him entirely, then. No, Will had always feared abandonment. Had always feared being forgotten and unwanted.

Hannibal cannot imagine, now, either of those ever being true for them.

Will takes a sip of his coffee, and gathers more food to feed Hannibal in front of him, squeezing his thighs against him gently in a semblance of an embrace, a semblance of a shrug to let that memory go away again. He licks the side of his thumb clean of butter and rests his elbows back on the counter, letting Hannibal watch him, touch as he pleases.

“You look very handsome,” Will tells him, genuine, though a smile does narrow his eyes briefly.

Hannibal gently removes the plate to set aside, eyes drifting closed as little hands skim his chest and tug at the greying curls of hair there. He seeks a kiss and is granted one, just a tender touch before he sits back enough to regard the boy spread across his lap. He is nearly as bare as Will, only in his underpants, and if the day is his to dictate, there will be no more clothing between them than that.

“Will you tell me that every year?”

“You only become more so,” Will answers with a little shrug and a smile.

“So you say,” considers Hannibal. “I am not certain I believe you. Look, here.” He lifts Will’s hand in his own and touches slender fingers to the bridge of his nose, where a scar runs crossways. “Your doing,” he adds, amused.

Will grins, entirely too entertained, and strokes over the raised mark a few times before following the line down to the tip of Hannibal’s nose, lower still to over his lips, tiny scars there too, from splits and bites and worse still, and most not Will’s at all. But he cups Hannibal’s cheek, caresses his thumb over the empty place where a tooth one was, now no longer.

“Good,” Will says, adjusting his position, smiling when hot palms settle over his thighs and hold him still. He won’t move far. He certainly has no need to move far, or anywhere at all.

“Every scar is another line in history between us. Do you want to see mine?” He asks, eyes warm as he settles his hand on the little mark up just against his groin, round and warm and still so sensitive despite the years since he has gotten it. His most prized mark, most adored, most touched, most tasted. And then he slides his hand up, along his cock, teasing, and to the harsh line that covers his stomach, like a jagged rail line.

“I will give you more,” Will promises him, words soft as though he were proclaiming his love for the man. Perhaps he is. Perhaps the most honest way they both can. “You will give me more. And every year we will lay each other bare and remember who gave them to us.”

Hannibal thumbs across Will’s belly scar, eyes hooding at the promises spoken entirely in truth, entirely in adoration. He lets his hand slip lower again, following too the poem carved pale into Will’s thigh, the back of his fingers grazing against Will’s cock. “And will you still think me handsome then? When my skin is engraved with memories of you.”

Small hands frame his face again and Hannibal tilts his cheek into Will’s palm, lips parting. “Will you still think I’m beautiful?”

“Always,” Hannibal answers, without hesitation or thought.

“Then you have your answer,” grins Will.

Will could never be less than extraordinary, in mind or body. There is nothing that would make him imperfect, not a lifetime of scars, not death itself. Hannibal wraps his arms around the boy to press their bodies together, and tastes his collarbone beneath parted lips.

“I look forward to them,” Hannibal murmurs, a breath of laughter on his words.

Will grins, draws thin fingers through Hannibal’s hair and gently tugs it, not enough to pull him away, not nearly enough to hurt, but enough to feel, a fond, gentle kind of reminder. They sit that way a while, until Will’s body picks up a rhythm of lightly rocking against Hannibal, for no other reason than to genuinely be closer to him. He laughs, sets a palm against Hannibal’s chest and pushes him back.

“Presents,” he reminds him. Hannibal blinks, and keeps his expression entirely neutral.

“Plural?”

“Aren’t mine always?” Will’s nose wrinkles in pleasure and he slips from Hannibal’s lap to take their dishes to the sink, to tend to later, before making his way to the stairs again, muscles tensing and relaxing as he bounces up the stairs on his toes. Hannibal watches in unabashed delight at seeing Will move so bare. He would have been coveted in ancient Greece. Men would have fought in the streets for his favour and his thighs, would have crowded to watch him run and train, this beautiful boy who is forever youthful.

Hannibal thinks that perhaps they had. He thinks, perhaps, that he had been the one to win him even then.

He follows only when Will turns to look, to beckon with a curled finger and a wide grin towards the study. Upon the desk, rest three beautifully wrapped gifts. Not the elaborate origami Hannibal prefers but paper folded precisely enough that you cannot tell where one edge ends and another begins.

It is rare that Hannibal feels a sense of shyness. Rare enough, in fact, that it takes him a moment longer in the doorway to understand the curious sensation, to give it a familiar name and know it after so long apart. A twist in his stomach, a smile that he can’t quite suppress, ducking his head as he follows the beautiful bare boy that bids him come closer.

“I hope you have tended to your studies as well as you’ve tended to this,” he murmurs. A gentle tug of dark curls rocks Will lightly back and forth, before pulling him near. “Foolish boy, I adore you.”

“Open them,” Will laughs, pushing against Hannibal’s chest to redirect his attentions, and for a moment, Hannibal wants to resist. He wants to catch slender wrists in rough hands and turn the boy, bend him onto the floor and have him, swearing oaths against his skin.

But for now Hannibal is agreeable, perhaps too overcome by such unusual festivities, and releases his boy to take up the first package. Careful fingers seek out hidden seams and slip them open, fold by fold, as Will seats himself upon the desk to watch with a grin.

Within is a box, beautiful matte black with Japanese characters decorating the front - _Masamoto_. Hannibal’s fingers skim the name and he raises his eyes to Will, but the boy just bites his lip, careful and little, and lowers his eyes to the package again, for Hannibal to open it.

Inside lies a knife, smooth light wooden handle, slick blade with an engraved name. Hannibal knows the knife will be perfectly balanced when he takes it up, he knows it will be weighted and comfortable in his hand. He knows it will be sharp enough to cut a hair midair, and watch both pieces waft to the floor.

“To replace the one I so generously installed in our entertainment room as the centrepiece,” Will explains, crossing his ankles beneath the table and holding against the edge with gentle fingers. “Yanagiba.” His words are practiced and beautiful, the language as natural to him, now, as Greek is, or English.

Hannibal’s smile curves wider at mention of the knife that remains planted in the wall. After the period of mourning ended, entirely aware of how - even sharpened again - it would never be entirely the same, Hannibal has grown quite fond of it where it rests.

At Christmas, he hung an ornament on it, and it sufficed in place of gaudier decorations.

Now and then he’ll set a tie on it.

He turns his wrist, studying the blade at just over eleven inches and shimmering in the low lights. The precision of it is obvious, but the weight is satisfying, and with another movement, Hannibal holds it less as chef and more as combatant. He hums, sweeping a horizontal cut, and then returning it with the point down-turned, elegant movements with a tool-turned-weapon that would find an easy home against a cutting board or a soft belly.

“Very good, Will. I did not know you had taken an interest in knives.” Raw pleasure resonates in Hannibal’s praise, and he turns the knife upright again before laying the flat of it to rest against Will’s collarbone. Were the boy to turn his head, or breathe too deeply, they would both know the glory of such craftsmanship as this.

Will’s smile is barely in his lips and entirely in his eyes, slowly growing wider with pupil and warmth. He does not move, for a moment, but when he does, it is to lean closer, just to the side so the blade leaves a paper-thin cut against his skin, blood beading against the almost invisible line before it collects, slips down pale skin in a thick, dark drip. Will bites his lip, does not lean closer.

“I have learned the value of them,” he says, tilts his head without moving the blade, allows his lips to quirk just a little more from the motion. “I have learned of your love and appreciation of them. You are, after all, a man who demands perfection in all things.”

He waits until the blade is removed, enough that he can pull Hannibal in by his arm and kiss him deep, bleeding between them with every pulse of his heart against his ribs. He knows the knife will grow to love the taste of blood, will grow ravenous for it. The thought makes Will shiver as he curls his legs around Hannibal where he stands and he pulls back only reluctantly to breathe, “You still have two left to open, before you can drag my knees raw over the carpet.”

Knife still in one hand, held behind Will’s back, Hannibal lifts his free fingers to wrap them in Will’s curls and tilt him just a little further. His mouth stings against the thin cut, his tongue burns when he draws it across the copper-sweet heat of Will’s blood. Only a taste, but enough to sate him.

He cannot imagine a taste more satisfying.

“You read my thoughts,” Hannibal purrs against Will’s ear, tracing a kiss there as well before reluctantly moving away enough to set the blade back in its case, and take up the next gift. Will’s legs don’t release him, and so Hannibal opens it between them, just as carefully as the one before it.

Inside that is a scroll. Several. Some tied together with heavy ribbon, others pressed shut with a wax seal depicting both of their initials in an intricate design resembling an ancient fleur-de-lis. Hannibal does not seek an answer, yet, as Will sits before him, blood silently seeping down his chest, still, enough to paint it, not enough to be dangerous. Instead, he takes one up and works the knot in the ribbon free to unroll it.

In Arabic, Will’s beautiful hand and a pen Hannibal is sure was one he had dug up and found at one of the markets, is written an oath, to him, to them. Words upon words that fill Hannibal with warmth, make his heart beat faster against his chest. Beneath that, just a scene, one described in first person, by Will he assumes, and one he remembers. It had happened. They had lived this.

Hannibal swallows, takes up another scroll, this one in Greek, and reads a similar oath, a different story. Every scroll for every language, every scene and every promise, all in Will’s handwriting, promises in the ink dark enough red to be his blood, were Hannibal to want to imagine it so.

Will bites his lip and smiles when Hannibal looks up, blinks. “A legacy,” he offers, “that we can build on, and that needs a second half, from you.”

He strokes across the letters, perfectly formed as the stories themselves. Some torrid and tawdry, recounting sharing each other by choice or by force, and others tender enough to nearly stop Hannibal’s heart in his chest. Quiet mornings and endless evenings, held in memory and now in his hands. Hannibal turns, resting back against the desk, still held in the warm confines of Will’s legs. They rise over his hips, slim arms around his middle, and Hannibal stands as if in repose, to read every word of the first scroll, and thumb slowly through the others curled around it.

The promises that each contains are just as sweet as the memories, things they’ve always known but now given permanence. Oaths and declarations that Hannibal can touch, and read, and remind himself of when he is driven to doubt, rare though those moments have become between them.

_Teach me everything. Make me learn it._

Only the movement of Will nuzzling against his back stirs the man from his speechlessness, and he rubs a hand along Will’s arm, gathering their fingers together.

_If your curiosity wanes, kill me._

Hannibal hides a smile against Will’s hand, lifting it to his mouth.

“I will,” he murmurs. “We both will add to it. And someday, these will be found, and those who find them will think us mad. Not for the truth of it all, but for the disbelief that two such as ourselves might ever have existed in such happiness among it.”

“If this is madness I relish in it,” Will murmurs, rubbing up against Hannibal just a little more, squeezing their fingers together in gentle tension.

He reaches for the last present for him, taking up the heavy little box, and passes it to Hannibal as he sets aside the scrolls, all coiling back to their tubes, heavy with wax or surrounded by ribbon. Within this last box is something metallic and cold, something that Will rests his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder to watch, rapt, delighted.

The toy is large, very large, bigger than anything Hannibal has tormented Will with before that wasn’t his fist, and Will makes a contented little noise before squirming against him.

“All the more to play with,” he sighs. “Thick and heavy and hard… and something to share me with that you won’t have to kill after.” Will makes another of those adorable warbled little whines and nuzzles Hannibal’s neck. “I couldn’t resist.”

Hannibal brings his hand to his face and draws a deep breath, but rather than a put-upon sigh, he laughs. Long and low and entirely heartfelt, lasting as he turns to face Will and wrap his arms over his skinny shoulders. He breathes against his hair, and lets Will feel his heart finally flutter free enough to beat faster, overcome by all of this.

By all of Will, who never ceases to surprise him, delight him, infuriate and sate him.

“Selfish boy,” he whispers, leaning back enough to lift Will’s chin and bring their eyes to meet. “I love you.”

Will’s eyes are hooded, smile small and his cheeks have warmed with a blush that is more expectation and nerves than humiliation or arousal - though that, too, certainly. He swallows, lifts his eyes and licks his lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, ducking his head to kiss the hand that holds him, fingers skimming over Hannibal’s chest again in a needy, almost childlike way. “Beyond words in any language.”

When Will’s fingers snare scraping over Hannibal’s nipples, he draws a breath through his teeth, and sighs it back against Will’s hair. The kisses he presses against the boy grow, a little firmer each time, until - the new toy still in one hand - he gently moves aside the gifts and paper to lean Will back over the desk. Their lips ensnare, both already nearing the hardness that has tugged at them since waking.

“How fortunate I am that you fought so hard that first night,” Hannibal whispers. “I have a lifetime to savor you now, when it might have only been a meal.”

Will’s body bucks against him and Hannibal’s own meets it in kind, a rough sigh coiling from deep in the older man’s throat. Dark eyes drift to parted pink lips, lift again to meet endless blue, and they twitch narrow in delight as he brings the toy to Will’s lips, kissing the corner of the boy’s mouth when it wraps obediently around heavy chrome.

“I suggest you be as greedy with your mouth as you are in every other way,” whispers Hannibal.

Will blinks, a languid thing, and swallows before opening his mouth wider, allowing his jaw to go slack enough to take even the tip of the toy into his mouth. The pressure is steady, Hannibal guiding it in and just watching Will’s response to it, the way he tenses as it hits the beginning, the very edge, of his gag reflex and Will works through it, obediently swallowing, spreading his tongue against the cool toy that warms quickly to him.

Will’s knees draw up and drop again, feet hanging off the floor, swinging gently once in a while under his desk. His hands are busy, one against Hannibal’s chest still to grip him there, draw nails over skin as he does choke, draws a quick breath through his nose and finds the toy unrelenting, merciless, unyielding, as he tries to soften it against his throat. For a moment, it’s a struggle, Will’s eyes closing and throat working on gagging thick sounds of discomfort.

“If you’re going to be greedy, Will, I would have you taste it and understand what you asked me for.”

Will whines, brows drawn and eyelashes damp. He tries harder, tilting his head back, to swallow more, to choke back any sounds of pain, to hold back the desperate need to retch until he feels it, that strange sensation where his throat just opens, accepts it, and he shivers, a violent sensation driving him to arch up off the desk and hold onto Hannibal harder.

“Open your eyes.”

Will pants, quick short breaths through his nose, but he obeys, slowly, until he is watching Hannibal with liquid eyes, tears close but not yet shed, from the pressure, from the discomfort, and yet he is entirely adoring, he is euphoric.

For a moment, Hannibal can bring himself to do little more than watch. It is the same awe that strikes him when bearing witness to a particular painting, or a certain aria. The same blissful disbelief that renders him motionless but for his speeding heart when he overlooks the boundless ocean or impossible mountain peaks. Will is more striking than all of those things, and Hannibal wishes the boy's beauty might just stop his heart entirely when a tear slips down a ruddy cheek, and drips against his blood-browned shoulder.

Hannibal leans lower, and in reverence, worships with warm lips against Will's swollen throat. He can feel it stretched around the unyielding toy, the ridges of his esophagus seizing in desperate, fruitless swallows. Hannibal kisses every one that moves beneath his mouth, and wonders at the knowledge that were he simply to stop Will from breathing now, he would go with the same ecstatic bliss darkening his eyes.

"You are a blasphemy," Hannibal whispers, moving up to set his teeth against the corner of Will's mouth as he slips the toy slowly free. "Heaven's host smote to earthly form," he sighs, and a shiver takes the man as the toy slides free and Will gasps, choking.

"I love you," Hannibal swears to him again. He gives Will no respite, hand pushed beneath his chin to bear him back onto the desk. Body-warmed metal finds his opening and teases inward, but Hannibal watches only Will. "Extraordinary boy."

Will sobs, trying to catch his breath and choking on that too, even as his lips arch in a grin, as his eyes close and allow more tears so slip down against his ears, into his hair. He scrabbles with weak legs again, trying to find purchase to hold himself up, to make this easier, more beautiful, anything, _everything_ for Hannibal.

The breach will hurt, and Will shudders from it, setting one hand against Hannibal’s wrist where he pins him, the other down against his thigh to hold himself open as the toy pushes in more.

Hannibal is big, but this is bigger. It will fill Will entirely and have him breathless and shaking, sated, perhaps, with the girth and hardness, unrelenting and almost cruel in that. And then more, he knows, when Hannibal will press him to the bed and push in alongside, near-splitting him open as Will sobs his pleasure to the bed.

“Oh.” Will’s eyes blink open and he squirms his hips down, relaxing to take the toy in as it pushes, stretches, widens him and does not seem to relent, still wider, still more still - “Fuck.”

He is slapped, just enough to redden his skin, to make a sound - symbolic more than truly punishing, but still Hannibal whispers, “Language, dreadful child.”

Only when another is pushing into his boy does Hannibal get to truly savor the sight of it, how readily Will’s body opens to allow entrance of another, and this more satisfying than some grunting, sweating buffoon atop him. Hannibal leans back, keeping his hand against Will’s throat in failing effort to still his squirming, to watch the brightly shined chrome disappear into him. Will arches, bends, writhes with abandon as if to somehow ease the pressure of it, but there is no yielding now as with flesh, no give even as he squeezes, relaxes, shifts his hips.

His cock lays curved up against his scarred belly, leaking copious from the tip in sticky clear drips that pool in the hollow of his stomach. Every straining squirm moves muscle and sinew taut beneath his skin, presses bone outward, and Hannibal envisions every part of his boy laid bare, exposed and glistening, trembling before him. He would let him, Hannibal knows, if he asked to tear Will apart and see what moves him so. He would hand him the knife and lay back like a lamb to allow it.

There is satisfaction enough in knowing it.

Relief is granted, briefly, as Hannibal slips the toy back out, its alien ridges catching each and every one on Will’s reddened hole, and then again when he pushes it inward once more. A slow, punishing depth is found, and only when Will’s fingers find purchase in Hannibal’s hair does he release his throat to move downward, dragging kisses across quivering skin, over pink nipples and scar tissue, to taste Will’s cock instead.

A sound, helpless and little, just as when he had allowed Hannibal, several times now, to not just play with fingers but push deeper. Harder. More. Engulfing his hand in trembling warmth and still moaning wanton for more of him.

Truly, irrevocably insatiable.

"Hannibal.” His voice is weak, small, and Will’s throat works hard as he tightens his grip on Hannibal’s hair, holds him there, even as the pleasure grows too much, of being filled, of being tasted by a rough, familiar tongue. "I'm -"

Will's body jerks when the toy is deep enough to stroke him properly, and a low, deep moan accompanies when it arches Will’s back hard and curls his toes. He is close to forgetting propriety - whatever he has left - close to ignoring rules and uncaring if he does.

He is full, tight and hot and deep, he is leaking and twitching and trembling so close to release he can taste it. And then Hannibal removes the toy again, each ridge playing over his sensitive prostate, his hot flushed skin, and Will digs his nails harsh against Hannibal’s back, obediently holding himself from release.

Hannibal does not need to tell him to do so. There needn’t be any words between them at all, really, the rules long understood and the punishments for breaking them accepted. And in his submission, Will owns him entirely - just as he would let himself be parted in a sea of red and laid open like an autopsy, were he to ask the same of Hannibal, the man would make the cut himself. A word, a breath of demand, and he bends for this boy as he has for no other - as he swore, once, he would not for Will, either.

His laugh is soft enough against Will’s belly to tickle the boy, who in a wordless whine exclaims his protest.

“Let me hear you,” Hannibal intones, lifting his eyes to watch Will’s ribcage rise as if to spread like wings when Will’s back arches from the table. He traces his lips through the clear pool of precum on his stomach, lapping it up in one long stroke of his tongue before ducking his head to its source.

He takes Will as far into his mouth as he can manage, nose brushing coarse curls of hair, the scent of sweat and arousal and musk filling his nose as he breathes deep, and swallows just a little further. Will bends up around him, curling with a cry as it presses the toy against new places, and a whimper is Hannibal’s only warning.

When their eyes meet again, Hannibal need not speak his allowance.

Will’s release comes almost silent, entirely choked out of him by the sheer endless, divine pressure and heat against him. He can barely breathe, barely see, and this is – he thinks – the first time he has cum so quickly from a toy and not just from Hannibal’s tormenting. He presses a hand against his eyes and whimpers, lips pressed together before they part, a string of spit between the top and bottom one, trembling in his breath before it splits, delicate, and vanishes.

Another whimper and Will laughs, a low and pleased thing, laughs like he does after every orgasm, like he does in Hannibal’s arms when he draws semen or blood or spit from him in their games. Will gives him everything, willingly, would not even consider ever not.

“Oh my god,” he moans, swallowing hard, letting his hand drop behind his head before lifting his head to look at Hannibal, still between his legs. “Please make me do that again.”

Hannibal hums, feigning disapproval, and keeps his lips wrapped around Will’s cock. He swallows the thick spatters of seed that coat the back of his throat, stomach coiling pleasantly as he does, and sucks the last few drops free of him. Slowly, Will’s cock becomes wonderfully soft again, like velvet against his tongue and sensitive enough that even a gentle suction is enough for Will to whimper.

He lets his length slip against his belly and lowers his mouth. He kisses the scar that bisects his stomach. He kisses the poetry that Will pressed into his own skin simply to please Hannibal. He kisses the small circle that marks their union of shared breath and bodies, and nuzzles against it when Will shivers.

The toy is slowly removed, lips touched beside it as well, and set aside against the desk. He will suffer its beautiful effects again, with Hannibal in tandem beside it, but for now, despite his hardness, Hannibal is satisfied. He gathers his boy against him, limbs shaking as they cling to the older man, and he strokes Will’s back to ease his trembling tension.

“I could not ask for more than what you’ve given me,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will shivers, wraps his arms almost sleepy around Hannibal and nuzzles him, a deliberate and pressing rub of his nose against the man’s shoulder, his cheek, nose to nose before he kisses him. He is spent, contented, heart thudding warm in his chest from giving Hannibal this. All of this. All of himself, always.

“Then take me to bed,” Will whispers, lips soft against the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. “We can press close, share words and thoughts and breaths and I can give you everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Of interest:   
> \- [the knife](http://www.japanesechefsknife.com/FurinkazanYanagibaSeries.html) (the one we chose is not on that page - but it was worth about $1200)  
> \- [the toy](http://www.njoytoys.com/products/njoyeleven.php)


End file.
